


Lay Down With the Thief You Met

by 3988Akasha, Dragomir, ElDiablito_SF



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, Jeremy is not dead, M/M, Miles is an idiot, Minor Character Death, Randall is disgusting, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:12:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3988Akasha/pseuds/3988Akasha, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragomir/pseuds/Dragomir, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Miles away in Georgia, Randall Flynn has the run of the place, with devastating effects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay Down With the Thief You Met

**Author's Note:**

> At least one of the authors had to be heavily sedated while writing this, which may be good advice for some of the readers.

Randall was honestly a little surprised to hear that Sebastian — President Monroe, since he was still being polite—had executed Captain Baker. Not personally, of course, because that would have been uncouth, but semantics. He hadn’t thought the careful needling or shadow games would have worked this quickly. As long as they got results, though, he wasn’t going to complain.

There was a reason he’d chosen the Monroe Republic over anyone else.

The Georgia Federation was wealthy, had trade routes with England and Europe (England being the first, closest stop, apparently). Their president was stable, genteel, and not likely to shoot her top officers in a fit of paranoia or madness. That, of course, had been one of the biggest drawbacks. Randall had absolutely no problems with women being in power—his favorite tour of a military installation had been one in Texas, where a woman had been the base commander. She’d been genteel and well-mannered, and absolutely unafraid to go toe-to-toe with whatever general was visiting her base. (She hadn’t been promoted away from the base because people were afraid of what she’d do with power or more troops. They hadn’t sent her into combat because Randall had dropped a few words into the Secretary of Defense’s ear about her abilities.)

But the problem was that President Foster was more likely to have had him shot. She wouldn’t have listened to him. She was too…well-entrenched.

The Plains Nations wasn’t even worth the headache that would have come from trying to unite it. No one listened to the government that, officially speaking, was in control. There were also the unpleasant rumors of cannibals roaming free on the government’s dime, and that was just…disgusting.

The California Commonwealth was nice, but Randall preferred the East Coast. It was near and dear to his heart. Added to that, he still believed in quite a number of the old laws of the United States, and the free trade in drugs bothered him. (He wouldn’t fault people their vices, but he didn’t like formerly illegal drugs like heroin making their rounds of a country, especially not in the head of state’s office.)

The Wastelands was full of people who liked peace, quiet, and they all carried heavy artillery. There was no organized government to contract with.

That, naturally, had left him with the only option of the Monroe Republic. He couldn’t have asked for a better place to set up shop, away from the Tower. President Monroe was unstable, open to manipulation, and desperate for affection from anyone who wouldn’t leave him.

There was also the added fact that he’d been building up a pre-Blackout armory because Rachel Matheson—that traitorous little bitch (if one would pardon his use of language)—had promised him power. Having drones, and helicopters, and other heavy artillery made Randall happy. It meant he didn’t have to do _everything_ himself. Besides that, the president was willing to talk to people who could promise him electricity and power over his enemies.

After Monroe had agreed to ally with him, Randall had done some digging. Luckily for him, the old brick satellite phones worked in close proximity with pendants, and the DOD’s file backups had been located at the Tower for him to dig through. Sebastian Monroe, formerly a sergeant in the United States Marine Corps (a good little patriot, through and through). Had gone on eight tours of the Middle East, and had come back a little more damaged every time—according to the psych evals Randall’s man had dug out for him. The last one, two years before the Blackout, had been the worst. His entire family, snuffed out the day after he got home from deployment.

Poor thing.

Then, from what he’d been able to piece together from the Republic’s records and word-of-mouth rumors, stories and anecdotes, Monroe had been the one to hold the Republic together while Miles Matheson — Rachel’s brother-in-law — was the boogeyman. Randall wished he’d had General Matheson in his hand as well, but decided he’d make do. A broken President Monroe was easier to work with than one who had a support network to rely on.

Everyone left Sebastian Monroe, and took a piece of his fragile psyche with them when they left.

It was almost too perfect.

***

If ever there was a face that was just asking for a brick, it was Randall’s, Bass thought. Those infuriating smirks alone were enough to make Bass want to take the butt end of his Glock and beat the self-satisfied look off the bastard’s face, and that’s not even accounting for the leering looks Randall sent him when he thought Bass wasn’t looking. It made the hairs on the back of his neck prick up at the implicit violation. Miles would’ve broken the man’s fingers, one by one, while Bass watched. But Miles wasn’t there. Bass felt the corners of his mouth, which had twitched into an involuntary smile, sag again.

“Mr. Flynn,” Bass took a long swallow of the remains of his whiskey, “I thought I told you of my dislike for you in no uncertain terms. What are you doing in my chambers?”

“Your affection is not, strictly speaking, necessary.” Bass felt movement behind his back and turned to face the man who had dared to approach him. “Although, a certain amount of it would not go amiss. After all,” the man paused and his eyes raked slowly over Bass’ body, “I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.” Bass wanted to hit him again, but instead his hand twitched towards the whiskey bottle. “Would you like me to leave?”

“Um... yes,” Bass said uncertainly and poured himself another drink. “You’re dismissed.”

“Am I?” A hand was suddenly pressed against Bass’ arm, fingers gliding slowly up his shoulder.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Have you completely lost your mind, _Mr. Flynn_?”

“Perhaps. But I’m not wrong, am I?”

A million things suddenly ran through Bass’ mind, not the least of which were thoughts of murder and mutilation, in no particular order. The hand squeezed and Bass pushed himself away, taking another sizeable gulp of the alcohol.

“I don’t _want_ you,” he spat out, avoiding Randall’s eyes.

“Like I said, want, much like affection, isn’t strictly required.” The man’s face had dissolved completely into a lecherous scowl. “But you _need_ me. And that is enough.”

It was almost as if Bass was carrion, and Randall was a hyena smelling his dinner, that was the ferocity with which the older man suddenly pounced on him, all tongue and teeth and insistent little fingers digging into the flesh. It was revolting.

“Mmmmm, yesss,” Randall hissed like a snake in heat, if snakes _had_ heat, Bass thought absentmindedly, as his own hands, traitors that they were, found their way around the man’s back and pressed him closer. Stupid hands. “You feel wonderful,” he whispered against Bass’ neck, his eyes glowing in the soft light of the kerosene lamps. “Such a good boy.” 

Something stirred inside Bass. Something besides his overwhelming desire to crush and kill. He prodded at the feeling, to see if it would dissipate. It prodded back.

“I’m not your god damn _boy_ ,” Bass finally muttered, his voice soft and uncertain. 

Apparently even his own vocal chords couldn’t be trusted. What was he to do when he was surrounded by traitors inside his own insubordinate body? “Get off me,” he tried again, weakly.

Randall pulled back, his hands at the back of Bass’ neck, his eyes steadily boring into the President’s face, like some kind of unwelcome alien probes. He cocked his head to the side in contemplation and then pronounced, “No.” And just like that, he was on Bass again, his tongue insinuating itself between Bass’ lips, probing against his teeth, insisting upon being allowed entry. Bass felt hands grasping his ass with surprising strength and agility, causing him to gasp, and then the tongue was breaching his defences.

“You’re so beautiful, Sebastian. Such a gift.” Randall murmured into his heated skin between surprisingly soft kisses. “If you were mine, I would never leave your side. I could never leave you.” He pulled back again. “Look at you.”

“Shut up!” Bass snapped, his treacherous dog hands already pulling the other man towards his bed. “I hate the sound of your fucking voice!”

“We don’t need to talk, for what I’ve got planned.” And then the man with the weasel’s face fell on top of him, and Bass didn’t understand how he could be simultaneously so filled with lust and loathing at the same inconvenient time.

***

Randall was rather pleased with how his evening with Sebastian had gone. He hadn’t expected him to fold quite so quickly, but the president of the Monroe Republic was only a man, after all. A lonely, unhappy, needy man who needed comfort. The best part, of course, was that he was so broken down that he’d take comfort from anyone who’d offer it to him.

If he wasn’t, Randall knew he’d be quite dead by now.

Still, it had all worked out for the best. Sebastian was at the stage where he was most malleable, all things considered. And he hadn’t touched his bottle of whiskey--the expensive brand, from before the blackout, which he kept locked in a dusty old desk--since looking at it yesterday morning. Randall counted that as something of a victory.

(He’d probably be better able to manipulate the man into doing what he wanted if Sebastian stayed a miserable drunk, but there was too much risk that the boy would turn on him. That wasn’t an acceptable risk, so Randall would take what he was given and work with it.)

Randall whistled something cheerful--and probably forbidden by the laws of the Monroe Republic--under his breath as he walked down the hallway to Sebastian’s quarters. 

Independence Hall had once been a symbol of the United States. As much as he hated the fact that he’d _accidentally_ destroyed the country he and his son had fought and bled for, he had to admit that the destruction had been useful. And now Independence Hall was a mockery of itself, with the only useful feature being a broken, paranoid young man named Sebastian Monroe.

The young man in question was sitting behind his desk, chewing on the side of his finger with an absent-minded look on his face. His shirt was unbuttoned and he looked quite dishevelled. Randall noted a few bruises on the younger man’s collarbone and tsk’ed mentally at them. Wouldn’t do for people to go getting any ideas about that...

Sebastian looked up as Randall entered, a minute frown flitting across his face before vanishing into the man’s usual blank mask. He was probably still upset about something. Likely having been interrupted in his brooding the night before.

Randall cleared his throat and waited for the President to acknowledge him.

“What the fuck do you want, Randall?”

Randall gave Sebastian a pleasant smile. “Just to talk. About the power.” He didn’t imagine the spark of interest in the younger man’s blue eyes, or how he sat up a little straighter in his chair. Randall smirked and sat down, without an invitation. He knew it was irritating, but he didn’t care.

“As you know,” he said, holding up the pendant, “these can turn the power back on.” Sebastian made an impatient noise in the back of his throat, a slight wince crossing his face as one of the bruises on his neck made itself known. “They can also be used to weaponize seemingly ordinary objects. It’s merely a question of punching the right sequence of numbers into the right computers. After all, we are all electricity.” He paused for effect. “Aren’t we, Sebastian?”

Monroe squinted and his nostrils appeared to flare.

“Go on.” 

Randall smiled, somewhat reminiscent of a predatory shark, and launched into the same watered-down explanation Sanborn had given him fifteen years ago. Not that he’d tell Sebastian he barely understood it himself; that was what he was keeping Sanborn and Grace for. He was terrible with computers, but they...were so very good at killing people with them.

Sebastian didn’t need to know that either, unless it was convenient for Randall to let him know. It wasn’t. Yet.

He watched the young man’s face relax with interest and he listened, becoming almost lulled by the sound of Randall’s pedantic tones. His guard was down. Randall casually placed the palm of his hand upon Sebastian’s thigh and left it there, as if it was a mere afterthought, his mouth continuing to form words of inconsequential gibberish.

It really was too easy to manipulate Sebastian. Randall made a mental note to give Miles Matheson a fruit basket if they ever met, as a thank you for the wonderful job he’d done on breaking the other man’s psyche apart so effectively. 

He might include pineapples.

***

Bass was disgusted with himself. Disgusted with the fact that he found himself leaning, with the fact that he caught himself watching the other man’s mouth move as he spoke. But most of all, disgusted with the disappointment that coiled up inside his gut as Randall moved his hand off his thigh and departed as casually as he had strolled in.

It wasn’t right.

He hated himself for the previous night too. For the way he moaned like a whore when Randall had marked his skin, lips and teeth leaving tell-tale trails over his sinews, where previously only Miles was allowed to leave marks before. Fucking Miles. He closed his eyes, even while trying to suppress the overwhelming urge to vomit which rode up inside him, and concentrated on not calling out his best friend’s name. And he hated himself for that weakness too. And for the fact that he knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, no matter how foreign Randall had felt inside him, how very wrong, that he was going to do this again.

The bath he had drawn for himself afterwards did nothing to cleanse him, and he hated the bath water for that too. 

Randall’s words from the previous night rang out inside his treasonous brain. “Precious,” he had called him. “Beautiful, darling.” Words sinking like poison into his skin. “I could stay here forever. Would you like that?” And he was splayed out, on his back, with Randall’s wiry frame, snugly ensconced between his thighs, unable to even lie to him properly.

“Yes.”

He could’ve blamed it on the alcohol, except he hadn’t been nearly drunk enough. He needed Randall. Needed to hold on to the illusion to that he was wanted, desired, maybe even loved. Loved enough to not be abandoned like a worn out pair of socks. But he knew this was a lie, and he couldn’t even force himself to believe it. He truly was a failure in everything he attempted. He couldn’t even hate properly.

***

It was only a matter of time before Sebastian cracked completely. How much time, though, was what worried Randall. He was on a bit of a deadline, after all, but... Well, all things considered, he could probably become a shadow ruler in the Monroe Republic and have a contingency plan for when his time ran out on that deadline. If he had Monroe in his pocket, then he wouldn’t have to worry about following orders on a set schedule. He might even be able to persuade his President -- and he used the term laughingly -- to take him all the way down to Level 12. Grace and Sanborn -- and Rachel, if she was ever brought in -- could easily bring the power back up in a small section. Just long enough to convince those bastards that he’d followed his orders.

They were ungrateful and would never acknowledge all the hard work he’d put into this plan of theirs. That was what annoyed him. It made it easier to take some of his frustration out on Sebastian. And, of course, he could still have his fun at the same time. That was what mattered.

His wife would probably be horrified, but she’d died during the blackout when her medication had run out. His son was long dead -- almost eighteen years now. It wasn’t like either of them would come back to haunt him. He had done nothing wrong.

He wasn’t even committing adultery, which he knew he’d have regretted, no matter what the circumstances were.

Randall hummed something vaguely pre-blackout and patriotic under his breath as he headed for what passed for a computer lab in the basement. Sanborn had taken to hiding down there, and Randall needed information. And time to plan for his next encounter with Sebastian. (Sanborn’s lectures bored him, for the most part, although the man _was_ smart enough to make a condensed version, since he liked his fingers as they were: firmly attached.)

Sebastian was needy, like an abandoned child. He’d crack soon enough. Maybe Sanborn had something that could speed the process along.

***

Sanborn’s lab looked something like a cross between the set of Myth Busters and one of the hellholes from Kitchen Nightmares (both of which Randall’s wife and son had quite enjoyed before their deaths and the blackout). Despite that, it was probably the most high-tech place in the world, outside the Tower. (Randall wished he could go back to the Tower already, but that would involve giving Sebastian too much information too quickly.)

Randall felt almost at ease in Sanborn’s lab as he did in Independence Hall (not too much of a stretch, given that he was _very_ close to ruling the place) or the Tower (despite the lack of access to Level Twelve). The clutter could have been more organized, but he wasn’t going to interrupt the man to tell him that. The weaponry Sanborn spent so much time developing was too useful for interruptions — Randall approved of industry, especially when it was being put to use for _his_ ends. And Sanborn’s weapons were going to get him what he wanted.

On one of the shelves was a rocket launcher. It wasn’t going to do much while Randall had Sanborn’s pendant — and Grace’s, and the one the project had made for him so his items would function in the labs during various test runs — but it was impressive. He wondered what Sebastian would do for a few more of them, or even a way to easily produce more bullets or simple pre-blackout gunpowder. He shelved the thought for a later time and began poking through the labyrinthine mess that was Sanborn’s lab.

The man was hiding out at one of the more obscure workbenches in the back of the lab, hidden behind several rolling cases of tools and a wire-frame loaded down with extension cords and power tools of every variety, working on something. It looked like the beginnings of an amplifier, albeit much larger than usual. (With any luck, Randall hoped, it would buy him quite a bit more influence with the president. He might even gain enough of the boy’s trust that he’d feel safe about revealing information about the Tower.)

Sanborn looked up when Randall arrived, eyes going comically wide in surprise. The piece of wire that had been in his mouth (filthy habit, Randall thought) fell to the floor. Sanborn gulped nervously, hand patting around for the dropped wire, which had probably been an important piece of the amplifier’s construction.

“Mister...Mr. Flynn,” Sanborn stuttered. “What...what are you here for?”

“Get a hold of yourself, man, before you wet your breeches!” Randall looked around the room rather wildly, as if looking for an escape route. “What do you think I’m here for? I want to know when the amplifiers will be ready, you miserable facsimile for competence!”

Sanborn gave Randall a weak attempt at a grin, to which Randall merely glowered. The scientist rubbed the back of his neck and coughed. He gestured at the half-completed amplifier, which Randall still thought was unusually large, especially given the others. If there wasn’t a good reason for the size increase, he’d have one of his men (not one of Sebastian’s men, because that still wasn’t his domain... _Yet_ , anyways) beat Sanborn for wasting the materials that could have been used elsewhere. Preferably on more rocket launchers. Sebastian had been inordinately pleased when he’d first seen those -- even more than he had been when he’d learned about the Matheson clan and their weapons skill shortly after Randall’s arrival in Philadelphia.

“Er....well,” Sanborn said, hesitantly, “it _might_ increase the range another mile.” Randall raised an eyebrow.

“You’re going to have to do much better than that, Mr. Sanborn. I don’t think Monroe is going to be rolling out the red carpet treatment for _maybe_ another mile. He’s going to want a proper slaughter. Or... that’s what I want for him either way. Semantics. Do better!”

Sanborn’s shoulders slumped and he nodded. Randall gave him one last glower before spinning on his heel and leaving. In another few hours, he could go back to see Sebastian. Until then, he did have work to do.

***

It was obvious that not being drunk enough earlier had been a mistake. A mistake he did not care to repeat. If he was going to end up being Randall’s fucktoy despite of his better judgment, the very least he could do was to anesthetize himself as utterly as possible. This was the activity Bass he been applying himself towards with passionate diligence when Randall found him.

He had run out of bourbon but the bottle of Kettle One he had found was far too precious a boon to waste and did not come cheaply, as he recalled. 

“Sebastian, what on earth...?” Randall strolled in as if he owned the place, skirting the desk and fixing an accusatory look on the glass in Monroe’s hand.

“It’s just water,” Bass lied, smirking at the obviousness of his duplicitousness. It wasn’t as if Randall couldn’t smell the alcohol all over him.

“It’s not becoming for a man of your position to be wallowing in vodka like this, like some kind of a sodden Kossak.”

“I suppose you’d have me wallow in your cock instead?”

Something flashed in Bass’ eyes, a certain danger, a poisonous ghost of his former self, back when he still had the teeth with which to bite. Instead of being cowed into submission, Randall gave him a warm smile and reached out with his hand to caress the side of Monroe’s face. It was perfectly absurd. Bass had half a mind to cut the man’s hand off; instead, he found himself leaning into the touch.

Randall’s hand was large and surprisingly warm, although that was probably the inebriation talking. Since he was drunk anyways, Bass dredged up the last time someone had given him a caress like this. It had been Miles. Just after a campaign, or something similar and everything had gone well. It had been one of the nights where they’d both gotten so drunk that walking was out of the question. They’d curled up next to each other on the floor in front of a fireplace, and Miles had been unusually touchy, playing with Bass’ curls and the day’s worth of stubble, making drunken overtures of a more-than-friendly nature that Bass had returned.

He wrenched himself out of the memories as quickly as possible, trying to hide a shiver of revulsion. As broken and drunk as he was, he wasn’t going to compare _Randall_ to his best memories of Miles. Randall was something different entirely. Bass did _not_ like the man, but Randall was right. Bass would do anything to keep people from abandoning him, because he was desperate for affection.

And he hated himself for it, for wanting Randall’s affection. He wanted Miles.

All he had was Randall.

***

Randall hummed happily as he let himself out of Sebastian’s quarters the next morning. The guards outside the door said nothing, staring determinedly at the wall opposite them. Randall could see a muscle twitch in the larger guard’s jaw as he walked by, along with the glares he was receiving from both men. It didn’t bother him. Sebastian would either protect him and have access to power and the touches and scraps of affection he craved, or he’d have Randall killed and lose everything.

There was no way he could lose, at this point.

Although, Randall mused as he let himself back into his quarters near to the back of Independence Hall, he could probably give the younger man more affection. Not much, but just enough that Sebastian would begin to expect it. Control had to be subtle, and he couldn’t have Sebastian growing tired of one game and begin to slip out of it. Playing multiple games with the boy’s head at once, though, would keep him safely and firmly under control.

Randall stripped his clothing off and stepped into the tub that one of the servants had so thoughtfully filled for him (probably not realizing that the President’s guest had spent the night giving Sebastian _every_ reassurance that he wasn’t going to leave anytime soon, and not in his own bed), sighing in pleasure. Warm water was a luxury in this day and age.

He might give the boy access to the VP’s bunker when he took him to the Tower in a few months. What would Sebastian do for a hot shower...? Would he stick out his tongue and wag his tail like the good boy Randall has trained him to be? He did love it when Sebastian begged for his bone. Randall’s face dissolved into a leer of complacency as he splashed his limbs idly in the water.

Half an hour later, Randall stepped out of the water -- which had gotten rather cold -- and wrapped a towel around his waist. The man padded out of the bathroom and into his quarters to get dressed. He had discovered, a few days ago, that these had once been Rachel Matheson’s quarters while she’d been Sebastian’s... guest. He had half-wondered if the notebooks had been left behind intentionally, before deciding that they had probably been overlooked by someone who’d been careless in getting the rooms ready for the President’s newest important guest.

Still, they were useful, he had to admit. He was all thumbs where computers were concerned, but he could appreciate the wonderful pages upon pages of passwords to get to various levels within the Tower. How Rachel had known them all, he didn’t know. He was grateful to her all the same.

He’d have Sanborn or Grace test them. Just in case the passwords happened to blow the elevators up instead.

Randall smiled. He’d tell Sebastian about the Tower later in the day. See what his good boy did then.

***

Randall was going to kill Sanborn _personally_. Slowly. With a blunt object. Ah well. It wasn’t like he couldn’t update his personal time table to deal with this new hiccup. He really would have to hurt Sanborn, though. He hadn’t meant to let Sebastian know about the Tower until much later. Sanborn had blown that right out of the water, though.

Him and his bleeding heart for a prisoner. Sanborn was back in custody, though. Randall had several of his men from the Tower keeping an eye on the weedy little weapons designer. He couldn’t afford any more hiccups. Especially not right now.

The man sighed and headed for Sebastian’s office. He _had_ promised the boy an explanation of just _what_ the Tower was, after all. (It had been the only thing keeping Sebastian from killing him outright. He’d have to do something to erase that niggling little sense of betrayal that he thought he’d seen in Sebastian’s eyes. Wouldn’t do for that to take hold and fester.)

Sebastian was sitting in his office behind the desk, mulling over what Randall sincerely hoped were reports of troop movements. (More than one officer he’d known before the blackout had perused personal items instead of paying attention to their work. He’d hate for the boy to be the same way. Although he had a feeling that personal items of Sebastian’s would involve quite a bit more alcohol.)

The boy looked up as he sat down, again uninvited. He had a mulish expression on his face that said he was unhappy. It had to do with the Tower, Randall knew. Still, he was at least giving up the information _willingly_. More or less.

Randall smiled. “I understand you want to know more about the Tower.” Bass nodded, an expectant gleam in his eye. “Explanations don’t do it justice, Sebastian,” Randall said silkily, standing up and walking over to Sebastian, invading the younger man’s personal space. “Perhaps I should give you a more intimate tour of the place...”

He’d won.

***

Randall had never liked helicopters before the blackout. He’d preferred jets--preferably private ones, so he didn’t have to deal with other passengers--because they were more comfortable and _much_ faster. At this rate, he’d prefer the shitty little Sierra he’d driven from Colorado all the way to Philadelphia. He _hated_ helicopters. Only the fact that Sebastian looked more uncomfortable than he did about the interminably long flight made up for it.

Colorado Springs, Colorado, was a hell of a long way from Philadelphia. Randall was pretty sure the trip could have been a lot shorter if Sebastian hadn’t felt the need to bring along troops. It wasn’t like they were going to storm Minot, after all. (No one in their right minds would go to Minot, but then that said something about the state of the Plains Nation. It had been decent before the blackout, but... Well, then the blackout had happened.) Luckily, the helicopter fleet was still faster than the armored convoy, and he and Sebastian--and a majority of _his_ men, thankfully--arrived at the Tower first, three days later.

Sebastian was less than impressed with the Tower’s front door, and said so. Randall just smiled and informed the President of the Monroe Republic that it went down quite a bit further than the outward appearance would suggest. Level Twelve was the deepest the Tower had been dug (although there had been plans in the works to make more levels even further down as residential quarters; nothing had come of that, though, and the plans had been scrapped).

Randall knew his boy would be quite a bit more impressed once they were inside. (And hopefully, everything would go well if Grace hadn’t locked him out. He had Rachel’s passcodes and Sanborn, but he’d prefer not to use either unless he absolutely had to. Best to save both for emergencies.)

Luck was on his side. Thankfully, the Morlocks who’d taken over Level Eleven had decided to be quiet. (That, or Randall had gotten his wish and they’d all died of oxygen deprivation or something equally unpleasant.) Getting down that far was more than good enough for one day. As a bonus, Rachel’s codes hadn’t blown the elevators up.

The Vice President’s suite was calling his name.

***

Elsewhere in Georgia, time passed like molasses. Miles Matheson knew what to expect - becoming the General again was the equivalent of selling his soul to the Devil. The only difference was that the Devil in question lived inside him. Was him. They were one and the same: Miles Matheson and the Father of Lies.

He had lost track of the lies he’s had to tell those around him.

And those he had left behind. “You are nothing to me,” by far the worst of them. It made his throat feel parched each time he remembered. And now here he was, leading an army against Monroe. Against Bass. You are nothing, my ass, he thought bitterly, once again seeking comfort at the bottom of yet another bottle of Bourbon.

“General, there’s a man to see you. Says he’ll only speak to you personally.”

Well, that always boded well. Miles frowned and turned the glass intently in his hand, as if trying to divine his future in it like a crystal ball.

“Show him in,” he ordered, and straightened his back again, inhabiting the body of General Matheson one more time, burying Miles underneath the pall of denial and unwanted responsibility.

“Miles,” the man had been wearing a hood but Miles would’ve recognized that jovial tone anywhere.

“I thought you were dead. Monroe blew your brains out.”

“Well... not personally. You know Bass. He wouldn’t have blown so... carelessly.”

Miles extended his hand, the one with the pistol in it, and aimed it at the man’s hooded face.

“You’d better start explaining yourself, Jeremy. I’m not accustomed to receiving visitations from ghosts.”

Jeremy Baker removed the hood and exposed his grinning face.

“See? Just me. Flesh and blood.”

“How?”

“You know Bass - sentimental to the end. Couldn’t stomach having to watch me get shot. It just so happened that the man he ordered to shoot me was... Well... Shall we say we were better acquainted than Bass realized?”

“You had one of your buttboys spirit you out of Philadelphia?”

“Tsk, Miles, please. Buttboys? So crude, even for you.” Jeremy strolled over to the only available chair and sprawled in it, all limbs, and no care in the world. “But that is neither here nor there. You see I am obviously not dead and yet our friend Monroe did order my execution. Which puts me in a peculiar position.” He paused and looked up at Miles from underneath the canopy of his thick, blond eyelashes. “I was loyal to him, you know. And now he’s alone, in a pit of vipers, and from what I hear, Randall’s got his teeth in him much deeper than you would care to contemplate.”

“Randall’s still there?”

“All my sources point to Randall being there. Here, there, everywhere. Miles. _Everywhere_.” Jeremy wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Meaning?”

“Do I really need to spell it out for you?” Miles cringed. “I see that I do. Well then. Randall is... um... how shall we say? Shtupping Bass.”

“Get the fuck out of here!”

“Miles, my dear old friend, would that I could, but the thing is: I have nowhere to go. Besides, that won’t change a thing about the fact that Bass is fucking Randall, or vice versa, if the rumors are true.”

“He couldn’t. He wouldn’t!”

“Why the hell not?” Jeremy stood up and veered on Miles. “Not like he’s got anyone else to hold out for now, does he?” Miles felt bile rise up dangerously high in his throat. “You fucking did that to him, you know.” Jeremy took another long look at Miles and sat back down, slapping his knees with both his hands. “Well, now that I’ve shared my intel, you can go ahead and kill me if you like. I’m a dead man walking anyways. But I couldn’t really leave without letting you know what you’ve done.”

Miles took a step towards the chair. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do, except he knew it needed to be violent. He could feel his fists clenching and unclenching, almost by themselves.

“Are you going to beat the shit out of me now?” Jeremy quirked one of his eyebrows upwards.

“Something like that, yeah,” Miles sighed, and grabbing the other man by his collar, he dragged him out of his chair until their teeth clashed together with the force of Miles’ ravenous kiss.

Jeremy’s eyes flew open in obvious shock, and having gone along with the kiss at first (after all, who was he to turn out the talented mouth of General Matheson), he gingerly extricated himself long enough to ask, “Are you sure I’m the one you wanna be ki...” That was when Miles shut him up again with his tongue. Jeremy closed his eyes and allowed Miles’ rage to hum and sing through his skin and bones as he attacked him. Shortly, the rest of Jeremy happily tumbled into the bed.

He figured, further self-reflection could be postponed to a more post-coital time.

***

The Tower wasn’t exactly what Bass had expected. Granted, he wasn’t sure what he had been expecting but it hadn’t been a multi-level, underground bunker, with what appeared to be subterranean honeymoon suite, replete with a giant, sunken japanese tub and a shower with five carefully arrayed showerheads.

“This is..,” he began, looking around the place, casually turning on the faucet to see if it would run. It did.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Randall was smirking at him from behind. Even with his back to the little man, Bass could still feel the heat of his territorial gaze on his back. His lower back. He wanted to contradict Randall, to diminish the effects this revelation was causing on his already overblown ego. But he hadn’t had a shower in... what? Decades? “I thought you might like some time alone to enjoy,” Randall pointed vaguely around the palatial bathroom. “There are towels in the cupboards.”

“Of course there are.” Bass tried to sound irritated but the feel of Randall’s hand, suddenly finding its way to the small of his back, was unexpectedly soothing.

“I’ll be back soon and then we can... talk.”

“I want to see the control room,” Bass extricated himself from Randall’s casual pawing and tried to school his face into a suitably serious expression.

“Patience, darling. There is no rush. No one will be able to come in here to disturb us.” Randall grinned again and brushed his hand along the back of Bass’ neck, pulling him in for a kiss. “You like it here, don’t you?” he queried in between nuzzling Bass along the jaw and neck, his hand rubbing territorial circles over the globes of his ass. Bass couldn’t suppress an involuntary shudder. It always started off sweet like this, and somehow ended up with Bass pressed face down into the mattress while Randall... Well, Randall could have given Miles a run for his money in the sack, at least as far as violence was concerned. Except this, this _thing_ he allowed Randall to do with him, it was all about the punishment. It was nothing like what he had with Miles.

“I think I’ll take that shower now,” Bass muttered, moving away. Perhaps the five showerheads would actually be able to make him feel clean again. 

***

“God, you’re a fucking idiot, you know that?” Jeremy was stuffing his mouth full of bread over what was supposed to pass for breakfast, but was rapidly beginning to deteriorate into something else entirely.

“This? This is the gratitude I get for my hospitality?” Miles took an angry bite out of his own piece of bread and contemplated throwing the rest at Jeremy’s head.

“Yeah, thanks for that, by the way. Spreading your gates and thighs to me so hospitably last night. You fucking idiot.”

The next projectile Miles contemplated throwing at Jeremy’s head was his knife. His hand twitched and he forced it to reach for his drink instead. 

Seemingly unphased by the narrowing of Miles’ eyes, Jeremy continued. “You did this to him. You totally took any foundation of trust right from under his idiotic, obsessed-with-you feet, to the point that he can’t recognize his friends from his enemies. _You_ are the reason he’s boning goddamn Randall Flynn right now! And what is your reaction to this news? Why, to suck my cock, obviously.”

“I did not suck your...” Miles jumped out of his chair, arms flailing in exasperation. “YOU SUCKED MINE!”

He might have said it came out of nowhere, but truth be told, Miles wasn’t really surprised when Jeremy got up and clocked him right in the jaw.

“Ow! I can still finish what Bass started and _shoot_ you, Jeremy!” Miles rubbed his hand over his rapidly purpling chin but did not draw his gun.

“You love him. He loves you. You’re brothers. Do you need me to draw you a fucking diagram?”

“Yeah, right, like I’m just going to wander in there, after everything I’ve done, after everything _you_ just went out of your way to remind me I’m responsible for, and he’s... what? He’s just gonna throw himself in my arms and call me ‘family’ again?”

“Well,” Jeremy looked a bit chagrined and toed the ground in uncertainty. “I mean... eventually, yeah. At first, he might shoot you a little.” Both men looked up and shared a small, reconciliatory smile. “He needs you, Miles,” Jeremy added, driving his point home, in case it was yet to penetrate the thick Matheson skull.

“I’m going to fucking kill Randall,” Miles muttered and sat back down in this chair, testing his jaw one more time before going back to his breakfast.

“That’s the spirit!” Jeremy encouraged and toasted him with his coffee from across the table. “Sorry about the whole... face punching thing.”

“Nah. I deserved that.” Miles toasted him back. “But you did suck mine. Just saying.”

***

Bass was sitting on the edge of a very nice bed -- kind of like the one from Miles’ hotel room in the Sheraton where Ben and Rachel had gotten married, but fancier and more expensive. He had the duvet from the bed wrapped partially around his waist, exposing lean hips and more than a few finger-shaped bruises that made Miles want to kill Randall all over again. But slower, and possibly with a blunt object.

It was the look on Bass’ face that really hit Miles. The sad, little, lost puppy dog look he’d had that night in the graveyard when he’d been about to kill himself. The look that said he was lost and his anchor was gone and he was drifting out to sea with no one to bring him home. There was a part of Miles’ brain, in the back, that was telling him that he could take control back right now. Bass was his. He could reassert his dominance over Bass while Randall Flynn’s corpse cooled out in the hallway.

Miles’ more rational mind took in the bruises and the lost look on Bass’ face -- the one that said he was going to start crying in a few seconds if someone didn’t do _something_ right fucking _now_. Reasserting dominance would get Miles what he wanted.

Just... not in the long run.

“Bass, you OK?” He hadn’t planned on saying that. It just came out and even Miles thought it sounded stupid: Bass was very clearly the opposite of OK.

“You... you killed him.” It wasn’t a question. For a moment, Miles wondered whether Bass would lash out. Maybe Jeremy had been wrong. Maybe Bass actually (and bile rose up in him at the very idea of it) _liked_ Randall. Maybe more than liked.

“Of course I did.” Miles took a step forward, figuring it was worth chancing it. “You’re mine.”

“I’m... what?”

“Mine.”

“But...” Bass looked around the room like a man about to start pinching himself to see if he was actually awake. “You left me. You tried to kill me. Twice, Miles.”

“But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Haven’t you ever asked yourself why?”

Bass shook his head a little helplessly.

“Because we’re family, Bass. And that’s not going to change. It’s you and me, forever, no matter how much I hate myself for it sometimes, but I... I can’t stop loving you. I won’t.” He took another step towards the bed, eyes fixed on the two clear blue pools of acceptance in front of him. “Come home, Bass.” 

He reached out, his fingers gently grazing the back of Bass’ neck, pulling him gently in. Bass rose up to press himself against Miles, letting the comforter fall to the floor, and exhaled a breath that he seemed to have held for years into Miles’ own neck.

“I am home,” Bass whispered.

Miles turned his head into the embrace, lips gently trailing up towards his lover’s earlobe, then across his jaw, until at last he sealed them tightly against Bass’ own lips. They melted into the kiss, their bodies easily remembering exactly how to cradle and meld together, limbs sliding into familiar locks, fingers clenching into the secrets holds just beneath the skin’s surface. This was a homecoming the likes of which neither of them dared to imagine.

Bass tugged, and Miles followed, shedding the most cumbersome parts of his attire as they climbed into the expanses of the Vice Presidential suite’s bed. 

“You won’t leave again?” Bass asked in between sucking and licking on Miles’ collarbones.

“Never,” Miles promised, unbuckling his holster and letting it fall somewhere into the sheets.

“I want you so badly,” Bass whispered, his fingernails digging into the flesh behind Miles’ shoulderblades.

“Baby, you have no idea.”

Bass flipped them both over, pinning Miles underneath him, with both his hands and his eyes. He searched Miles’ face for the smallest inkling of doubt: he saw none, only the deep brown pools of unreserved desire staring back at him. Miles raked his hands over the smooth, tight flesh of his lover’s abdomen, loving the familiar way the muscles there seemed to tremble at his touch. He wanted. He _wanted_ so desperately. A tentative movement of Bass’ hips against his groin sent another jolt of desire down to Miles’ very core.

“You belong to me,” he repeated, desperation coloring his voice as flashes of Randall Flynn’s last breath skidded through his mind. He smiled, baring his teeth and clutching Bass’s hips with his fingers, wanting to plant his own bruises over the bruises already there.

“Inside me. Now.”

“Yes.”

Bass would have impaled himself on him right then and there, but Miles insisted they at least take the time to find the lube. Miles could feel all of Bass’ muscles trembling with anticipation as he slicked his fingers and worked them into him.

“Enough,” Bass growled.

Miles peppered his neck with soft kisses, fingers working insistently.

“Hush. Don’t wanna hurt you.” He paused to kiss Bass’ rapidly reddening lips again. “Not ever again.” Bass was a live wire in his lap. Thighs and arms straining against him as if any further delay would end up in Miles being torn into pieces. _God_ , how Miles had missed this.

When they were finally both ready, and Miles could feel himself disappearing into the blazing heat that was Bass, even the air around them seemed to crackle and break. The sound torn out of Bass’ throat was of such claiming, possessive triumph, that Miles thought he was going to spill right then and there. His lips were still pressed against the crook of Bass’s long, exposed neck, tasting the beads of his sweat, like some nectar he had been thirsting for in the desert of his self-inflicted exile. No one had ever felt or tasted as perfect as this.

Bass rode him with the same air of need and desperation shared by their earlier kisses, as if he was planning on fucking Miles into the mattress with each downward thrust of his hips. He was so full, so perfectly impaled, and yet it was as if he would never get enough of this again. Now, every touch was greeted with the awe that he had wished he had experienced before, before he knew each touch could possibly be his last. But it wasn’t the end, it was another beginning, and yet, it was so much, yet not enough, never enough. Bass dug his fingers deeper into Miles’ flesh and pulled loud moans of ecstasy from his throat, revelling in the sound of it. He needed to feel Miles inside him, all of him, wanted it to be dripping out of him for days.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Miles whispered.

“Fuck...” Bass gasped out as he felt himself spill right into Miles’ fist, loving the way it stroked him through the last spasms of his orgasm.

Carefully, Miles flipped them over, bracing himself over Bass, still buried inside him, wanting to savor the blissed-out look of awe and contentment on his lover’s face. Jeremy had been right: he’d been a fucking idiot. With a few more thrusts, Miles followed Bass over the pinnacle of pleasure, contentment and love washing over him as he collapsed into the other man’s strong arms.

Bass’ head buzzed. Parts of him were being squashed, but he didn’t give a shit. He pressed Miles closer and placed an almost chaste kiss to the top of his head.

“Miles?”

“Hm?”

“I love you, you know? But...”

“Yeah?” Miles poked his head up, looking suddenly worried.

“I need you to cut your fucking hair.”

Miles kissed him violently in response, nibbling on his bottom lip.

“It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make,” he finally replied.

**Author's Note:**

> We take no responsibilty for any damage suffered during this story. (It's all Kripke's fault.)


End file.
